nostalgia's sake
by Val-Creative
Summary: "I know," the man deadpans, half-gesturing in Bill's direction. His fingers tap on the car-alarm until the lights blink. "I'm late." (IT 2019. Stenbrough. Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris. Stanley Uris Lives AU.)


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It's all been slow-moving. Mist. It's putrid and heavy, filling Bill up to the brim, removing chunks of time, liquefying his head.

_Stanley's dead._

The knowledge fills him, dark and puncturing Bill's insides like wet, slimy thorns. Bill doesn't how he ends up on the front-steps of the Derry Town House, hunched into himself. Richie and Eddie, along with Beverly and Ben—they're all packing inside, shouting frantically, getting their scheduled rides and flights. The ground slicks with rain, lustered under a yellowed streetlight.

Bill doesn't move from the lowermost cement-step. He can barely breathe, let alone consider what to do next. Mike keeps calling. Bill presses his quivering lips together, lifting his face up. A low, wailing noise stifles into one of his quaking hands.

It's not right.

_It's not._

They were kids once, pedaling down this avenue in a thunderstorm.

Stanley complained about getting home by noon initially. His aunt and uncle went driving into town for dinner, or something like that. He forgot, hooting and hollering out Bill's name eagerly when Bill got ahead of him, by at least a yard. Silver—Bill's own childhood bicycle—could beat anyone. Even the devil.

Stanley never got mad about losing their races, laughing until his eyes crinkled up and roughhousing with Bill. Their shoulders nudged occasionally when they walked themselves and their bikes to Richie's neighborhood, abandoning them a little too close to Mrs. Tozier's rose-bushes. Stanley always left the kickstand up. No matter what. His light colored curls wind-fluttered and radiantly burnished by peeks of sunlight. Innocent, carefree and twelve-years-old.

Bill forgets what Stanley mumbled to him, climbing high on the porch-steps, holding onto Bill's shoulder. But it had been a wide, unassuming smile, and Stanley's warm thumb stroking momentarily over Bill's cheekbone. He plucked a little, crawly bug hanging to an auburn strand of Bill's hair.

He knew, then, Bill loved him more than a friend.

More than Richie or Eddie, and it felt.… natural. Like a jigsaw piece pressed in, driven by a breathless, kismet force. Now that he can truly visualize Stanley, Bill wants more than anything for it to _not be real_. To go back. To rewrite this shitty ending.

A car rolls up in the darkness, turning and parking on Bill's left. Bill stiffens up, wiping under his mucus-covered nose.

It appears to a luxury and eco-friendy type, Bill thinks. Not newer, but painted a dark, crisp blue. Probably a rental. A man, long-limbed and lean, pops open the car-door. He's tall. Wearing an expensive, designer button-up and sweater vest.

"I know," the man deadpans, half-gesturing in Bill's direction. His fingers tap on the car-alarm until the lights blink. "I'm late."

Bill's eyes widen in disbelief. _Kickstand_—no matter what.

"The plane had to make an emergency landing. Heart attack victim. Tell Mike to quit leaving me voice messages."

"Stan…?" Bill murmurs, clutching onto the step below. It can't. It can't be.

"You look like hell, Bill," Stanley admits, brow furrowing in concern. He observes Bill from the distance, saying nothing about the hot, glittering tear rolling down Bill's cheek or his dumbfounded expression. The disheveled state of Bill's entire being right now.

"Didn't y-y-your… wife…?"

"What wife?" Stanley asks, frowning. When Bill doesn't answer, he nods in understanding. "Right. _Right_, uh, we're getting our heads screwed with." Finally, Stanley wanders onto the rain-dampened grass, rubbing the back of his neck and tilting his head. Bill's muscles sag in relief. "I'm really not looking forward to that. But.… hell, Mike called. Said bad things were happening."

It can't be—Bill goes over the past hour mentally. The distortion. Was it all a _lie_?

"Stan," Bill murmurs again, gladdened, climbing onto his feet. He throws an arm to Stanley, embracing him fiercely and practically sending both of them down on their asses. A half-bemused, half-amused grunt leaves Stanley. Bill slides his opened hand across Stanley's upper back, looking him in the eye beseechingly. "Stan, w-we thought y-y-you were d-de—"

His stuttering keeps Bill from acknowledging it. He doesn't want to.

"I swore, Bill," Stanley declares quietly, his thumbpad stroking over Bill's cheek. Dragging away the line of moisture.

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_IT (2019) isn't mine. Requested by edgywitch (AO3): "stenbrough bill reacting to the news that stan's dead but stan shows up bc he didn't die." Every fic that has Stanley alive,,,,, is the most valid of all the fics. I said what I said. Thanks for this prompt! I hope you guys like this one!  
_

_((Want a request for IT? I'm doing 100-1000 word fics of any friendship or romantic ship + any prompt until I feel like quitting. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a friendship or romantic ship and prompt. You need to also specify if you want SFW or NSFW (for 18+ readers only). The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you just read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))_

_((Do not ask for Reader/Character, OCs, Bowers Gang-centric or ship, Pennywise-centric or ship or underage. All characters for NSFW will be depicted as 18+ only.))_


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